


Reasonable Adjustments

by wench_fics (WeasleyWench)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Complete, M/M, ooc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-21
Updated: 2012-09-21
Packaged: 2017-11-14 17:56:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/517964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeasleyWench/pseuds/wench_fics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The path to self-acceptance is just another reasonable adjustment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reasonable Adjustments

Reasonable Adjustments

 

...And on the centre platform, the final...

 

Thick smoke -- from still-smouldering, mouldy wood -- filled Harry's nose and stuck like sludge in a drain. Putrid, the scent summoned mental images that made his left shoulder twinge and red explode in his mind. Weight seemed to settle in his arm, and he remembered a screaming child tight against his chest, magic flying everywhere, turning too slowly to avoid a spell; going blind; fire... then smoke and mephitic tendrils filling his airways. The dull sweetness of burning skin and muscle lingered in his bones, the stench of singed threads and hair. 

Harry exhaled, clapping his palm over his mouth as he dry-heaved; only memories he couldn't evade rose up, thankfully. He closed his eyes and reminded himself that everything was alright, that he wasn't trapped. After a dose of self-deception, he regained control of his stomach enough that taking a breath didn't threaten to upend it.

Now, keep going; you're bloody safe... Attempts at convincing himself always fell short. He was vulnerable -- felt it: not having use of magic was more of a handicap than his arm or his limited sight.

He carried on, looking around the stadium, vaguely aware of the witch announcing the next event.

 

...world-class duellist...German champion, Sabine...

 

Sometimes the superficial names of these events baffled Harry. Stupidity, not healthy competition, perhaps, would have been better. But whatever they wanted to call it, the result was always the same, all for a title. Harry shuddered; he remembered eternal glory': blue flames and death in green. 

Two wizards watched him pass, looked at him as though he needed to grow a pair. He glared, more irritated by perceived weakness than their expressions; they knew nothing about him or what he'd seen or been through. Wankers. Not my fault I don't spend every moment in this bloody crypt. It wasn't actually a crypt, but it might as well have been. The stone walls seemed to swallow light and create a perfect resting place for the dead. Thankfully, little glowing balls lit the walkway Harry followed, and luminous balloons floated between each section. He looked up. Almost five thousand boxes lined the walls. Each one sat off-centre, the front of one attached to the back of another, on and on, until they reached the ceiling. Many were occupied already, full of voices that coagulated by the time they reached him. 

 

...against five-time British champion...

 

The footpath veered to the left, and brightly-lit signs marked each of the boxes. Not much further to his seat. It sat two flights of stairs up off the lower tier of the north tower. No magic needed to get to it, unlike most. At least Seamus had come through for him. Harry smiled.

 

...of The Three Wands...

 

The air was clearer now, but the odour from the blaze lingered like week-old rubbish. There were too many people, not enough ventilation in the confined arena. And the officials took their time with everything, at least they had through the previous duel. By the time the second for the German duellist arrived, they might get less-smelly air. But Harry doubted it.

 

...Draco Malfoy!

 

Applause and cheers tore through the stadium. Britain's best hope for a title rested on the shoulders of a man they'd once despised. Harry smiled and watched Malfoy move toward his marker on the stage. 

The officials wasted no more time. An Evanesco cleared the detritus from the previous bout, and Malfoy pulled his wand. Only a few stairs remained; Harry climbed faster. The soft tap, tap, tap in his chest became thud, thud, thud, like his veins weren't large enough. Finally, he reached his seat.

Harry stepped into his box and sat down: a surprising view of Draco Malfoy in a simple robe with a high collar waited below. Rumour painted Malfoy as a fop, limp-wristed and bent as Harry's handwriting. His poise had never been mentioned. He's grown up, came to Harry's mind, and handsome. Nothing like what the loose tongues said. 

Scoffing, Harry sat back and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped his brow, and dabbed over his right eye. Already he could feel the Disillusioned material covering his face shift, and hoped like hell it would stay put. With so much magic weighing it down, it'd better.

As he settled, a silvery line rose through the floor on each side of the stage. It warped and connected in the centre, stitching together; then it faded like a magically healing wound. This was what he'd been waiting for. Harry re-settled after shoving his handkerchief back into his pocket and leaned forward, bracing himself against the front edge of his seating box with his left arm. 

Red lightning shot across the main floor toward the duellists and hit something, made it ripple, and then disappeared. Harry dropped his hand to his pocket and felt the outline of his wand. Now the transparent dome over the stage made sense. Protection. Though Harry wondered if it was from those watching, or those duelling. Relief soothed the tension in his arms, and allowed him to settle more comfortably. He slowly relaxed his hold on his wand. Even if he'd pulled it, though, it'd be ineffective. At least with charms in place, he could watch the duel, focus on Malfoy, and decide whether or not to pursue Malfoy's expertise or finally give up.

 

Competitors, take your positions!

 

Malfoy kept his shoulders squared and back straight, his gaze fixed at the witch only feet away. Harry frowned. That wasn't right - Malfoy held his wand in his right hand, but his rumoured trademark was his ability to duel with his left hand.

 

Ding, ding, ding.

 

The first spell shot from Malfoy's wand and slammed against the witch. She screamed, the sound echoing, then dying. Thud, thud, vibrated Harry's heart, and he leaned forward further. Malfoy moved like a whip; every hit, while not precise, did its damage. They ducked, shielded, countered, and used magic Harry had never seen before. It twisted and bent to wrist movements, and Malfoy used both hands to mould his spells. Some looked like shields, and others like lightning, or what Harry imagined thunder would look like. Sometimes one hand guided an attack, the other defended. It was good to see magic used this way again.

Harry grinned, his knee bouncing. It looked like Malfoy had the advantage, but unrelenting magic assaulted him; Harry wondered if Malfoy had the endurance to continue or whether he'd have to stop. Back and forth, light rose in sparks, and suddenly diminished into darkness. Harry's stomach wobbled like a boat at sea. The rules stated that they fought until one went down -- whatever that meant, Harry didn't think about. He couldn't. Down' he broadly understood to mean dead'. If Malfoy went down', it could take ages to find what he needed.

Then a flash, so bright that Harry clamped his hand on the edge of the seating box, filled the room. White spots danced behind his eyelids and stole his focus when he looked at the duel again. Everything spun -- too many voices, too much light. From side to side he glanced, then down, and felt the edge of the box -- wood against his palm and fingertips. What had seemed to float finally settled, and his balance returned. The duel reminded him of that night too much for his liking.

On stage, Malfoy held his wand in his left hand, and manoeuvred it toward his opponent in a spiral. His wrist and hand snapped and jerked like electrical wires dancing. But his focus and determination came through in his expression. Like a story, it all came together until the witch's wand flew into Malfoy's right hand.

Cheers filled the room.

That's it? Malfoy hadn't used unnecessary force or trickery, just skill. That was impressive. 

Harry stood, the whole thing feeling anticlimactic. But he had seen everything he needed to see. The celebrations could last all night, and Susan wouldn't appreciate him oversleeping in the morning.

 

# # #

 

"Are you still applying the unguent daily?"

"Yeah." Harry craned his neck and tugged his t-shirt up, slowly working the collar over his head. It snagged and displaced his patch. "Bugger." He pulled it off and set it on his knee; then went back to the t-shirt. Pins and needles erupted throughout his arm as he manoeuvred the sleeve over the curve of his shoulder and the sharp jut of his elbow. Little sparks of sensation continued to explode, then dissipate, even after he stopped. Carefully, he rotated his shoulder. The muscles and tendons felt like they splintered; he drew his arm in and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes. Trees and water and clouds -- he thought of them, waiting for the discomfort to fade. 

 

\--one... two... three...four... five... six--

 

It didn't.

"It's never going to heal properly; you know that." Susan picked up her wand and held the tip against his shoulder. The point dug into him, felt too cold, and like it burrowed as she began casting.

"Yeah, I remember-- Ow. Fuck. You really don't have to use that spell every time." Harry pulled away, but the magic remained connected. It moved like snakes, blue and bright under his skin as it worked, down until it reached his wrist and hand, lower until it pooled in his fingertips. He ground his teeth, fingernails digging into his left palm, shaking. Tendrils danced inside his fingers and shot up to his shoulder; then reconnected with Susan's wand-tip as though it lay a suture around the damaged tissue. Now all she had to do was end the spell. Patience, Harry.

Strands of magic knotted together; then sank into his shoulder before vanishing.

"You know I do," she said sympathetically and replaced her wand on the table. Harry eyed it, but faced Susan when she took hold of his arm and her touch, slick with lavender oil, burned his skin. That was a familiar scent; one of the many she used to keep him relaxed when just her touch was enough for his reflexes to rebel and nerves to protest angrily. Harry gripped the chair arm. "You're tenser than usual. Have you been overdoing it?" she asked.

"No. Just doing the usual exercises. That thing against the wall with the soft Quaffle. Oh, and the gripping the Snitch and raising and lowering it and all that. Threading the knitting wool through the Hula Hoops. I do it every day."

"Mm. Relax. Being so highly-strung isn't going to help."

That was easy to say. None of the bollocks they suggested worked: there weren't any effective potions, oils, unguents, or salves. Pain had become a constant part of his life. Only variation of the degree brought it to his attention: a pinch, a shock, burning, pins and needles; then blessed numbness. Harry never knew if the feeling would come back. He hoped sometimes it wouldn't. Every time Susan massaged his arm, a range of prickles and aches flooded him -- until the magic did its job and made the contact bearable.

"That's better." The burn ceased. Susan rubbed her hands together; then she pulled them apart, producing a flannel and a small bottle between her palms. 

Harry slumped, watching her clean her hands, the same ones that had treated him no matter how many angry curses he'd spat at her. 

Nearly done, now. Harry rubbed his cheek and temple. Need more of the liniment.

"You're not planning to do something silly, are you?" She eyed him closely.

"Sorry?"

Susan's expression remained blank. "You want me to clear you medically: it's only been just over a year, Harry; why now?"

Because he wanted freedom. And to be useful. Sitting around and accepting the Ministry's Galleons made him feel useless. He didn't have to be an Auror again, but Harry needed something, a job, a new hobby, a lover for longer than a night. As long as he had quiet -- didn't have to answer to anyone about his arm, or his face, and why he couldn't perform magic -- he'd be happy. The scars wouldn't disappear -- not curse scars; they never did -- and he'd never see clearly out of his right eye or have proper movement in his right arm, but he would be able to do something. The concealment charms in his eye patch, though heavy and irritating to his skin, protected others from what he'd become, and he had the Muggle eye patch for when the magical one bothered him too much. Just a bit of itching he could deal with, a constant scrape of charmed fabric was another story, even if too much movement could reveal his secret.

Clearance would also mean he would only see the Healers when he needed them, rather than having check-ups every other week.

At length, he said, "It's just time." He looked down and fingered his patch. At least he could adjust it after a round on his knees, before his partners noticed anything. Getting that sort of surprise after a shag, or during, could be off-putting, and Harry only trusted a handful of people with his weakness and shame. But it didn't matter, really; Harry knew what lay underneath: skin that felt like tree bark, and that was enough. Nobody else needed to worry about it or know. He lifted his patch from the centre, where his thumb fit perfectly into the small conical depression, and held it over his head. The band attached snagged on his hair--

"No, leave it off. I want to check your eyes, too."

"Right." Harry put it on his knee again.

"Charms still holding up alright? You can see properly?"

"Mostly, yeah. Same old: everything straight ahead is clear. The rest is a bit squiffy. No change in the left eye, that I can tell. Been perfect since before the accident."

"Mmhm. And you're still alright when you're not wearing it? No sensitivity to light in your right eye?"

Harry shook his head. "'Bout the only problem is the pain in my arm. I know, I know, you can't do anything about it. Apart from that, though, I'm brilliant."

"Good. But I'm running the scan anyway."

Harry chuckled. "I reckoned you would."

Susan smiled and cast the appropriate spell. The familiar metallic taste of magic rippled over his tongue, and surrounded him in a haze of colour. Then water-like trickles of energy ran through him.

"Everything looks alright. Your scars are redder than usual, though. Is the patch irritating them?"

"Yeah, sometimes. That's why I got the Muggle one. It's not as heavy or tight and all that."

"Mm. No one ever thinks about the weight of magic. They've got all those charms in there for concealment, and ones to keep it secure. You're lucky it's not worse." She shook her head. "You never cared about the way you looked in school."

"Yeah, you remember how people looked at Moody, don't you? Some of those idiots actually still believe the stories from Hogwarts about me being mad."

"Then it's their problem. You've got a-- Harry. Tsk. Do stop letting whatever idiot you've shagged manhandle you. You've got some minor tearing. I'll give you a potion to take care of it." Heat flooded Harry's face. "Just don't forget to take the proper potions beforehand, alright?"

"I'm careful." 

"You'd better be."

Harry smiled. "So, am I clear?"

Hesitation followed; he cocked his head, waiting. If she said no, there were other Healers. But only if needed.

Susan sighed. "Yeah, I suppose. But listen to me, Harry: if you have any problems, come directly to me. Don't faff about until you're miserable."

"You know I won't."

She smiled, nodded. "Right. If you need it, I can do the spell once a week. Any more than that--" She paused. "You know all of this, of course."

"Of course, Healer Bones."

Susan grinned. "I suppose you're alright, yeah. Fit as fiddle. Hold out your hand. Tsk, no, Harry, the other one."

Harry did.

"Open it. Good. Now make a fist. Excellent. Your control is getting better." She paused, and watched Harry closely. "Slow down just a bit. Yeah, like that. Now, show me your wand grip."

Harry hesitated, but did reach for his wand. It felt like he'd plucked it from a tree.

"Rotate your wrist."

The wand slipped as he did. Harry tightened his grip, his hand beginning to shake. Weakness made him feel like he was in the middle of a bright room with thousands of people watching him fail, and no escape.

"Stop, stop. Alright. That's good. It's better than last time. Have you tried any magic yet?"

"What for?"

"You're a wizard. Magic just doesn't dry up, and that wand is not the only way to make it happen." She shook her head. "It's you doing it, you know. You think you can't, so nothing happens. The mind's stronger than the body sometimes."

"Yeah, well, I'll get there. I've been doing alright without it."

Susan smiled wanly. "I know you are. And you will get there. You haven't given up yet, so that's something." She picked up her wand and flicked it at the remaining jars, parchments, and medical supplies, and sent them to her bag. Harry watched each of them settle in the bag; then watched Susan slide her wand into the slim pocket on the front of her Healers' robe. "Right. I'm off, then. If you need me, Floo me straight away." 

"I will. Thanks for everything."

"My pleasure, Harry." She smiled and headed to the fireplace. A flash of harmless green later, she was gone.

Time to contact Malfoy.

 

# # #

 

Tink--tink--tink.

Harry faltered, crushing a salt-and-vinegar-flavoured Hula Hoop. Crumbs scattered onto the tabletop and the remaining large piece fell with a soft pat. What he'd already strung up fell and scattered haphazardly. Running his left thumb across his fingertips, he glanced up. An owl glared at him through the drawing-room window, its beak stuffed with a small packet. Hopefully that was a reply from Malfoy.

Harry set down the knitting wool in his right hand, then dusted it on his jeans and finally crossed to the window to admit the ruffled-looking thing. 

He accepted the letter. "Thanks." The bird's response was an angry hoot, and the windowsill sighing its relief when it took off.

 

Potter,

I accept: twenty five Galleons for two lessons a week, every Tuesday and Thursday. No, I don't think you have to contract for a year. Honestly, Potter.

I would have done it for fifteen, but it's your money. We'll discuss times later; I do have my own training schedule to keep. 

Let's meet for lunch tomorrow at the Leaky, around one o'clock.

Draco Malfoy

PS: I make no guarantees, but I'm sure you know that already.

 

Of course he knew, but he had to try. Harry returned to the table and ate the remaining crisps.

 

# # #

 

A Yorkshire pudding sandwich sat on the table, along with a glass of beer. Harry eyed it, unsure if he was hungry, but lifted his fork and cut out a bite anyway with Malfoy watching him. As he chewed, he took in Malfoy's appearance: a plain black robe like he'd worn at the duel, highlighting his pale skin. He'd finally grown into his bones, but was still sharp. It suited him, even if Harry wouldn't call him overly attractive. Untouchable, maybe. They were the same age, but Malfoy looked more composed and mature than Harry ever could. The few minutes he'd been there, Malfoy hadn't given anything away. All Harry could do was watch Malfoy's throat, his mouth. He licked his lips, dismissing the potential for a shag before it could solidify like pavement in his thoughts. He took another bite of his sandwich. What made Malfoy most appealing was Harry's inability to read his expression or eyes. Already Harry was intrigued. Usually he could tell what a person was thinking, but not with Malfoy.

"How'd you know this is what I'd order?" Harry asked after swallowing.

"Abbott says that's your usual."

Harry raised an eyebrow, curious. Considerate' and Malfoy' had never fit into the same mental slot before; thinking it made Harry feel off balance, more so than contemplating the coming conversation. 

"Right." Harry took a deep swig of his beer and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. He smiled at Malfoy's expression of bemusement. "Thanks." He frowned and debated taking another bite, but instead blurted, "Have you ever trained another wizard before?"

Malfoy eyed him flatly. "No, I haven't, but I daresay I'll manage. I remember my own training well enough. Hrm. I had use of my magic at the time, though. It's all about the mindset anyway. Have you tried a new wand?"

Harry nodded. "Didn't work, either."

"Hrm. Mental, then," Malfoy said, his brow furrowed. "If you're willing to put the work in, then I suppose you'll manage. First I want to know what happened to you. You hold your arm like it's injured; I refuse to be held liable if you make it worse."

Hearing the question, even when he'd expected it, still gave Harry pause. "I'm fit as a fiddle, according to Healer Bones. Took care of that a few days ago. Thought you might want that, if you accepted." He smiled, watching Malfoy school his features. "Mission gone badly wrong, basically. Haven't done magic since." None of the scars or his limited vision in his right eye needed mentioning; those were Harry's.

"That's it?"

"Yeah, basically."

Malfoy's gaze shifted to Harry's right side, and he eyed Harry's arm as though it was a blue robe amidst green ones in a carefully arranged wardrobe: no disdain or discomfort seemed to alter his bearing, though, like with a lot of other people. Most wanted to cosset him or avoid him; the former irritated him and the latter were brilliant. Malfoy, however, looked as though the weakness was an unalterable feature about Harry, like eye colour or the scar on his forehead. "Can you use that arm at all?"

Harry glared, but reined his irritation in before he offended Malfoy. "Of course I can. I reckon they wouldn't have let me keep it if it had been completely useless."

The thought seemed to keep Malfoy from responding. His brow remained furrowed long enough that Harry began drumming his glass. There were others if Malfoy said no. At least two more wizards and one witch had Malfoy's reputation. But Harry hoped Malfoy would help him. They had a history, mostly bad, but still a history, which was more than Harry could say about the others he'd found in his searches. Harry thought it fitting -- though he disliked it -- that Malfoy should see him weak and vulnerable, just like Harry had seen Malfoy in the sixth year. They could trade, somehow even the scale of slights.

Malfoy knew what it was like to feel helpless.

Time slipped away like rain against a window. Two sips became three, until all that remained of his drink was foam. Harry even finished his sandwich, still waiting.

Malfoy just looked at Harry, occasionally humming or nodding, like he was having a conversation with someone Harry couldn't see.

"Malfoy."

Only blinks came in response. Then Malfoy smiled and leaned forward. "Alright, Potter. Four o'clock."

"Today?"

"It's Thursday."

Harry nodded. "Alright."

"Or we could start now. Then you can decide what you'd really like to do."

"Alright, let's go." The words were out before Harry could think. He grinned.

Malfoy smiled wryly. "So the old Potter is still in there somewhere. Good; you'll need that."

"Wha--?"

"Shall we Floo? Or do you mind Side-Along?"

Harry blinked and sat back. He'd expected a lot of things from Malfoy, but not... this. Not ready acceptance to assist Harry. But Malfoy had always been a magnet to him, and Harry had no way of resisting his pull.

And found he didn't want to.

"Side-Along's fine."

Malfoy stood and held out his right arm. "Then let's get started."

Without hesitation, Harry stood and hooked his left forearm around Malfoy's elbow. 

 

#

 

They landed smoothly on a floor of pale wood. The whole room was pale, though -- the walls golden and gathering the sunlight to illuminate everything. Portraits surrounded them, and what appeared to be a gossamer curtain of magic hung, shimmering, all around. The scent of shaved wood and oil diffused the air and tasted fresh when Harry inhaled. It could have been Malfoy, though. 

Harry hung onto Malfoy's arm longer than necessary, liking the brief flex of healthy, masculine muscle beneath his hand. If Malfoy noticed, he didn't comment. Various things he could say came to mind; but Harry reckoned most of them were irrelevant. He hadn't solicited Malfoy's help for personal gratification, even if the desire played hide-and-seek in his thoughts.

Malfoy fluidly pulled his arm free from Harry's. "Alright, Potter, first things first. You clearly can write with your left hand. No magical quill is going to have that sort of scrawl. So learning magic with your left hand will probably be similar to you learning how to write again. It'll take time, and determination. You always did seem to have that in abundance, though." Malfoy pulled off his outer robe and held it out. It disappeared, and Malfoy looked at Harry. He began to unbutton his cuffs, then started to roll up his sleeves. "Wand out. You were an Auror, right?"

Harry's throat went dry. Knowing he wouldn't be able to do anything, he froze. Tingles like marching ants moved up his spine.

"Potter."

Blink.

"You used to be an Auror, right?"

"Er--" Harry cleared his throat, "--yes. Little over nine years."

"Alright. Explain to me how you handled Dark wizards."

"It depended."

"On what?" Malfoy pulled out his wand and pointed it at Harry. He wore the same focussed expression Harry had seen the night of the duel. It was like a switch had been flipped and the only thing Malfoy saw was his target.

Suddenly, Harry's heart felt rubbery. Back and forth it bounced -- a ball on a string that whipped against his chest. 

"Whether they..." Lava had replaced Harry's blood. It boiled and pumped faster with every heartbeat. Harry thought he'd melt, be like the glob of skin from his face after he'd been found facedown and grateful for lying on the floor. At least then he couldn't have fallen any further.

He still could, now.

Malfoy wanted him to try to cast a spell. He knew it, like he knew night would become day. But he wouldn't be able to. Nothing would happen when he waved his wand or said the words he knew like breathing. Then Malfoy would really see how weak Harry was. 

"Whether they what?"

"...seemed dangerous."

"Hrm."

The pounding of his heart didn't stop when he held his breath.

"I'm going to Stun you, Potter. I want you to try to disarm me before I can."

Even though his insides burned, Harry remained frozen. All thought ceased like a dying gust of wind. In front of him, he saw red, fire, and felt flames lick his arm. His inability to do anything brought back that night so clearly in his mind it could've been happening then.

Malfoy raised his arm and flicked his wrist.

"Expelliarmus!" Harry shouted and waved his wand madly. "Expelliarmus!" Expelliarmus!" Nothing happened. His voice echoed and continued running until silence reigned. 

He jerked his left hand to his right shoulder. Pain erupted; sensation like driven nails and raking gravel penetrated him. Then scraping, enough to whittle his bones, replaced it.

Harry gasped, and looked as his hand. No fire. No melted skin. Only an empty wand mirrored its master in his palm. 

The pounding in his chest intensified and he looked at Malfoy, eyes wide. "What the hell did you do?"

Malfoy had the gall to look offended. "I assure you, Potter, I have done nothing to you."

"Then--" Harry looked away, his face hot, and squeezed his shoulder. Blessed numbness had replaced the pain, but not Harry's embarrassment or shame. Malfoy hadn't done anything. Apparently perceiving a threat of magic had as much impact on Harry as Malfoy actually using it, though. 

Harry clenched his jaw until his teeth ached. He thought he'd dealt with the accident and everything that had come with it. Weeks ago he'd stopped going to therapy because his potions had finally stabilised. Now he wasn't sure that'd been the best decision. The potions just made him feel like parts of himself were stuffed inside a box with no key.

Two options remained. Stop taking the potion that kept most of the ghosts of the past at bay or continue going to therapy. Harry disliked both, but he knew he needed to find a balance between them. Hiring Malfoy was the first step. When Harry could use his magic again, he knew he'd feel like his old self.

"Look, I'm no Healer, but I think you're getting in your own way."

Harry swallowed and looked at Malfoy. "How's that?"

"I'm not sure. I need more information before I can make an educated guess, though."

"Like what?"

"Like what really happened."

The last thing Harry wanted to do was tell Malfoy about that mission. Thinking about it reminded Harry how vulnerable he was, and how stupid he'd been. One mistake...

"Potter."

Harry glanced round. Statue-still, Malfoy waited, for Merlin-only-knew-what; he'd at least returned his wand to his robe.

Little choice remained. At least none Harry could see. Malfoy could refuse to train him if Harry didn't give him the details. No one wanted a stubborn student. And he wasn't the bloody expert; Malfoy was.

"We got a lead about a wizard experimenting on his daughter. You know, Dark stuff --  
the sort of thing that makes you want to murder someone, even though it's your job to keep those sort of people out of society and do the right thing."

Malfoy nodded.

"He'd had his wife under Imperius for so long that she's in St Mungo's now, permanently. She can't make decisions for herself."

"Go on." Malfoy lifted his arm and rotated his hand, palm open as if for an offering. Then he snapped his fingers and two armchairs appeared. He motion toward the empty furniture.

Harry crossed to one and took a seat. "Thanks."

"My pleasure."

"Anyway, the woman's family suspected he'd done something to her after the daughter was born. They didn't hear from her for a few years and asked the Aurors to see if they could find out anything. A team went, and nothing had been at the cottage the woman's husband owned. It'd just been missing persons then. We got another report, though. That one was for disturbances along the coast, near the woman's cottage. Dark Magic."

"Enter the Aurors."

Harry nodded. "I went ahead to scout the location, since I'd never been there. Three other Aurors were waiting for my signal when I was ready. But -- fuck, Malfoy -- I could hear screaming from the shore." Harry exhaled and blew the ghosts away like an offensive smell. "I sent my Patronus. Followed protocol. I got there and disarmed the husband, then Stunned him. But he could do wandless magic -- quite well. I tried to make a Portkey for the girl to get her to St Mungo's, but... she wouldn't let go. She was bleeding and terrified. Couldn't've been much older than four. But... I didn't even see him coming, I was so focussed on her. He hit me with some mix of an Incendio and Reducto spell. I didn't explode, but the fire did when it hit me."

"I see."

Thank Merlin. Harry sagged. He saw Malfoy's lips move, but felt like he was underwater and couldn't discern individual words.

"I'm sorry?"

"I'll do my best, Potter. But I told you already that I can't make any promises."

"You're the best, right? I'd expect nothing less." Harry smiled.

"Mm. So why me?"

"Because you're the best."

Malfoy looked satisfied, his expression that of man of pride, rather than arrogance. Harry was just pleased that he didn't look smug. Fighting a battle of wills or wits wasn't on his agenda, just learning how to use magic again.

"And before you ask, I'm doing this because it's a challenge. I won't always be a duellist. Having experience teaching will help me." 

Of course. But Malfoy's honesty pleased Harry even more: with the sort of family history Malfoy had, Harry could understand him wanting something of his own. "Good."

"Then let's get started, shall we?"

Harry smiled and stood.

 

# # #

 

Circle--"Expelliarmus"--swish--"Lumos"-- swish and flick--"Wingardium Leviosa"-- circle--"Expelliarmus"--swish--"Lumos"-- swish and flick--"Wingardium--"

 

"Keep going, Potter. Concentrate."

"Yeah, I am." Not really, though. He'd been watching Malfoy watching him -- all day, in fact. It was hard not to. Every time Harry lost his focus, the first thing he saw was Malfoy's keen eye from across the room and felt like he was being recorded by a Muggle camera.

"Arm up. Elbow relaxed."

The repetitive motion was calming. Harry remembered the feeling of magic. Its power over him hadn't faded or diminished despite its absence and his inability to use it. Sometimes longing replaced comfort, though. Now magic was the stolen image when Harry opened his eyes after blinking: vague and just a feeling, a memory, no longer tangible.

 

Circle--"Expelliarmus"--swish--"Lumos"-- swish and flick--"Wingardium Leviosa"-- circle--"Expelliarmus"--swish--"Lumos"-- swish and flick--"Wingardium Leviosa."

 

"Do you watch these memories later?"

"Why do you ask?"

"You watch me so closely, I thought.... We did that after Auror training. You can see things another way, since everybody remembers things differently; memories aren't quite like Muggle films."

"Yes, I know. They're more like the different camera angles. And, yes, I do. Last week, you--" Malfoy approached, "--weren't turning your wrist fully. This week you are. You've been practising."

"Yes." Harry lowered his wand.

"No, no, keep going. I'm just observing." Like a vulture, Malfoy circled Harry.

Taking a breath, Harry tried to clear his head. He liked Malfoy's keen eye and feeling like the centre of attention. Like maybe Malfoy didn't care about Harry's arm, or that he might fancy a shag sometime. Harry knew better, but his body and mind betrayed one another. 

Malfoy carried on like Harry staring at him was normal. "You miss it."

Harry focussed on Malfoy. "Of course I do."

"Then keep going."

Harry did. It was difficult to concentrate with Malfoy stalking him, though. Scrutiny from a handsome man, teacher or not, interested or not, stole Harry's attention.

 

Circle--"Expelliarmus"--swish--"Lumos"-- swish and flick--"Wingardium Leviosa"-- circle--"Expelliarmus"--swish--"Lumos"-- swish and flick--"Wingardium Leviosa."

 

Harry stopped and lowered his wand again. "Shouldn't I feel something?"

"Do you remember what your magic felt like?"

A ghostly sensation of warmth spread through Harry. A smile from Mrs Weasley came to mind... a night at the pub with Ron and Hermione... Harry's first kiss with a bloke. Holding his wand for the first time. All moments when he was truly happy. "Yes."

"You should feel that."

Harry looked at Malfoy and hoped -- fleetingly -- that Malfoy could give him that feeling again. Or at least lead him to it.

 

# # #

 

The gallery floor warped in the centre and had scuff marks everywhere. Harry eyed it, then slid his foot across the dip. 

"Potter."

Harry's heart felt like a caged bird demanding freedom. He looked up. "Oh, hey."

"You're early."

Harry grinned. "Finally grew out of being late."

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "Are you ready?"

"Yeah, s'ppose so. What are we doing today?"

"Stances."

"Stances? Why?" Harry followed Malfoy to the far end of the gallery.

"As a distraction."

"Distraction--?"

"Just stop questioning everything and listen." Draco pulled his wand and stood like it was a sword. "Now, watch me. You're going to be doing the same thing in a moment."

Harry watched avidly, every twist, pivot, lunge and step. When Draco had finished, he Summoned a large mirror and placed it in front of Harry.

"What--?" Harry stopped, knowing he needed to trust Draco's judgement. He nodded and got into position. He felt odd. He wouldn't be able to keep his right arm posed for any length of time, but many of the stances Draco had shown him required it. Only if it became a problem would Harry say anything, though.

Step, keeping his back foot flat, then back. Then a proper step, where both feet left the floor. Harry kept his lifeless wand wrapped tightly in his left palm and fingers. Moving forward, he lifted his right arm and tucked it against his ribs. Step, step-step, lunge. Over and over, Harry waved his wand, thrust it, and mirrored Malfoy's movements.

"Stop looking at the floor."

Blinking, Harry looked up and felt his face heat. "Right." He tried again, watching his reflection. Every move he made taunted him. He looked off balance and strange to his own eyes, but he didn't stop. He couldn't. Magic would work for him again; it had to. He needed it, wouldn't be whole again until he had it back.

"Watch the centre of your body. Here, where your stomach is. Focus there, and you can see everything else."

Not quite everything, but Harry didn't need to say that. As long as Draco stayed on Harry's left, he'd be fine. At least Harry hoped -- part of the thrill of being with Draco was not knowing what would come next.

The movement, even when it hurt, became hypnotic. Over and over, Harry countered himself, thinking the spells as he did. They'd done this bit in training: imagining the opponent and being prepared with at least three different spells at all times. Of course, the preparation never replaced experience. When the mind went blank, the body took over, like now. Harry felt the spells like his pulse. Gradually, it became faster, locked away, like his magic.

If he'd been in front of the Mirror of Erised, he knew what he'd see: the tip of his wand alive and a reflection of himself healthy and not hiding. If breaking the glass to take his heart's desire were possible, he'd do it to reclaim what belonged to him. He deserved peace after everything. For now, he imagined regaining his magic as brilliant as the first Snitch he caught.

Eventually, he hoped, he'd stop looking like that child hoping for his parents with too-long limbs and uncombed hair.

 

# # #

 

"Left arm up. You want to make a large circle. Like you're painting the air." Draco demonstrated, making a fluid arc of his wand.

Harry waved his wand and imagined he was painting the air. It was just too bad nothing actually remained behind; any evidence of improvement would be welcome.

"Alright, add it all together now."

First Harry relaxed and shoved away the growing tension in his right shoulder, forearm and bicep; the required posture and motion left behind its fingerprints. After a few weeks of contributing to the groove in the gallery floor, Harry was beginning to wonder whether he would make any progress -- at least he'd managed to perfect swishing and flicking. But he'd done these exercises so many times now that he dreamt about them, only to wake and feel a sense of loss he couldn't define. It reminded him of his arm and his eye: the partial sight and limited mobility -- and the way his face looked when he didn't wear the magical eye patch to conceal his injuries. 

"Whenever you're ready, Potter."

"Yeah, sorry. Was miles away."

Draco studied him for a moment, and then nodded.

Every wand movement signified something. It was like language, according to Draco. Basics were basics; like words, the melting pot of language had boiled over and layer upon layer of roots and sounds became one. 

Drawing one's wand toward the body invariably led to Summoning. Certain circles were for offensive or defensive spells respectively; using both hands for spell-work meant physical drain on the caster.

Harry's thighs burned refreshingly in his stance. Working toward a goal renewed his determination. Later, he knew he'd appreciate the work in his bones, feel satisfied about a job well done.

He tried to rest his right arm, but it still tightened and complained when he adjusted. 

Ignore it. Harry exhaled and began.

Thought and feeling bled together. Pain, discomfort, and wanting to watch Draco faded into soothing motion. Where Harry could taste serenity like water. Feel it like a well-built man. Inhale the scent of sweat and blood. Hear the robust sound of breath and silence. 

Safety. Security. Harry felt it, knew it in his bones.

Sweat tickled Harry's brow and landed in his eye. He didn't stop.

His right arm felt like lead. He didn't stop.

Harry knew he'd succeed. He needed to.

Something light but firm pressed against his back. He faltered, wanting to lean against it. Instinctively, he understood the feel of one body to another -- Draco. Harry's attention returned like an ember rekindled. In the mirror, two men, as opposite as sunlight and moonlight, stood. Harry briefly wondered which he was. Then he watched Draco wrap his fingers around Harry's wrist; his other hand settled on Harry's hip.

"You're doing well, Potter, just keep your arm up and turn your wrist a little more."

The words hit Harry's neck and cooled the sweat there, sent a shiver down his spine. He lowered his right hand, grateful for the respite from holding it against his ribs, moved it to Draco's. Draco's skin was cool beneath his palm.

No attempt to withdraw from Harry's touch came. A good thing, or else Harry's hand would've faltered further. The only thing keeping him from mucking up his efforts was Draco. 

Their bodies seemed to become one; heartbeat and breath melded. 

"Good, Potter."

Their reflection hardened like drying tarmac in Harry's eyes. Draco's lips, pink and inviting, were parted against his ear. What would they look like around his cock? How'd they feel against his, taste? Harry imagined them to be firm and confident, knowledgeable in drawing out pleasure for the sake of pleasure. If Harry turned, Draco's lips would brush his jaw, and hopefully not pull away. Chancing it would be stupid, though, not before time. Never before knowing for certain that his advances would be accepted. When in doubt, ask permission -- Harry knew that.

In unison, their fingers tightened. Draco looked down, then pulled away, taking his security and quiet strength.

Harry's need became like an urgent fist; he feared it might actually pulverise his control, his dislike of Draco pulling away, of Draco letting go. Not so long ago, Harry hadn't let go with Fiendfyre eating everything in its path and Draco'd needed him. He hated even more that he needed Draco to hold on now. They weren't anything to each other apart from teacher and student.

And Harry realised that wasn't enough, even though he was unable to explain why. Slowly, he lowered his wand.

"Why--?"

"Don't stop."

Firm words -- a command, Harry thought. He found himself oddly willing to comply. Rather than incite Draco's disappointment -- or worse, assumptions about his dedication -- Harry continued.

Harder, faster, Harry moved.

Draco retreated to the corner he'd been watching Harry from and remained there.

Coward, Harry thought traitorously. Ethics weren't cowardice, though; Harry knew that. He just didn't like it.

Determined not to let one lapse in control become a barrier, Harry decided to pursue more once he didn't need Draco's help. All he wanted was one night. More if Draco wanted it, too. But steps needed taking first.

"Alright, Potter; I think that's enough for today."

Harry stopped.

"I'll see you Thursday." Summoning a towel along the way, Draco approached. "You're dripping." He stopped at a fair distance and extended the cloth.

"Thanks." Harry accepted it.

Draco nodded and took a step back.

Asking whether Draco only wanted to maintain propriety and a proper relationship with Harry while he was a student crossed his mind, but Harry dismissed it. Too many questions could become tiresome, and if Draco wasn't moderately interested, he wouldn't have pressed so tightly against him.

It wasn't personal, his pulling away. Still, Harry disliked how the bridges they'd crossed gave Draco a way to retreat should he want. Hopefully, he didn't feel the need to.

"Are you alright, Potter? Your face is rather red there." Draco pointed.

Carefully, Harry patted his own face dry. Now that he wasn't active, he could feel where his eye patch had shifted. Apparently not enough that Draco noticed anything more than minor skin irritation, though. Either way, Draco shouldn't see that. Harry's appearance was rather off-putting when his face wasn't concealed by spells and enchanted fabric. 

Not even Harry could stand to look at it; no one else would want to, either. Even Hermione flinched sometimes when she saw it.

Concealing it was best, when most of Harry's relationships didn't last longer than a night. Of course, not many of them made the effort for more after gratification had faded -- including Harry. Those who did were people he'd known before the accident. Maintaining his distance from everyone else kept him sane. 

"Yeah, fine," Harry said, trying to keep the towel in front of his eye. "I should go. Thanks, Draco." He turned and walked away.

 

# # #

 

"I told you not to faff about until you were miserable." Susan held her wand steady, pressing the tip against Harry's skin. It was going to hurt; when he pushed too hard, it always did. "You haven't owled me in weeks. Are you trying to lose it?"

"No. It hadn't bothered me until today. Swear it."

She didn't look convinced, but continued her duties anyway.

When the spell hit Harry, the usually blue tendrils of magic flared red and angry. A flash of white filled his head, and he went limp. Sensation didn't stop, though; it continued to burn throughout his arm, trying to release built-up tension.

"God damn," Harry ground out. "Stop, Susan. Stop."

"I have, Harry."

He squeezed his eyes closed and waited.

And waited. He felt like he was reliving the night he'd been hit. Coruscating light flashed in his mind, and searing pain burned the length of his arm and face. Even the scent blossomed in his memory, making him ill.

Eventually, relief oozed in and Harry regained the ability to think.

"What are you doing to yourself?"

Harry looked at Susan, saw her sympathetic expression and sighed. Heavily. "Trying to get my life back."

"By doing what?"

"Training with Draco Malfoy."

"You what?" Not incredulous-sounding, as Harry would've expected, she watched him.

"He's helping me learn how to use my wand left-handed."

Susan's lips moved, but nothing came out. She turned and sighed. "Is it helping?" The clink of jars and instruments distracted Harry.

"You mean have I done magic yet?"

"No, is it helping?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"It makes me try harder."

Susan looked at Harry -- a long, penetrating look. Then she nodded. "Good."

Harry smiled.

"Now, eye patch off. The skin's irritated again."

Harry complied.

 

#

 

That evening, Harry rubbed his face for the hundredth time, still feeling the lingering oil against his skin, and the cracked, half-melted, half-solid bits that reminded him of tree bark. Outside, the wind hummed gently, and the light above the table flickered -- he needed to replace the bulb. Piece by piece, he tried to assemble a glittering puzzle of a mermaid combing her hair -- not the ones he remembered from the Black Lake, but a Muggle-style one.

The piece in his hand shifted again. "Bugger." Colour faded and reappeared as the edges sprouted like a turtle's head from its shell, in a new position from the last time. Rather fitting, with Harry's decidedly slow approach to completing it. Amazing, really, that kids did the things for fun; they were work.

He reached for his tea -- knock, knock, knock -- and paused, having missed the handle of his cup anyway. Tea forgotten, he stood and left the room.

At the front door, he took hold of the knob, twisted it, then pulled. A shadow cut across the entrance hall, and briefly the waiting stranger appeared to be a large blob. Harry blinked and focussed on the glint of light from pale hair.

Brow furrowing, Harry stepped back, pulling the door with him.

Draco's face pinched for a moment, but returned to indifference so quickly Harry thought he might have imagined it. "Potter."

"Draco. What, er... are you doing here?"

"You missed training today, without notice. I value my time; if you weren't going to bother showing up, the least you could've done was owl."

Realisation felt like sudden rain. "I'm sorry. I reckon I lost track of time."

"Clearly."

Harry shook his head. "Would you like to come in? I've just made tea."

"Yes, thank you."

Draco crossing the threshold of Grimmauld Place gave Harry an odd feeling, like the acceptance of the invitation carried more weight than it should. Being in the impersonal gallery-cum-training area at Draco's home was different from inviting him into Grimmauld Place.

"This way." Harry closed the door and led Draco to the drawing room.

 

#

 

For a while, they shared silence, only glanced at one another occasionally. Harry didn't know what to say. If he kept quiet, though, all he'd have was the way Draco's lips twitched after each sip of tea to determine why he was there. Finally, Draco asked, "Puzzles, Potter?"

"Oh, er, yeah. To help with my hand, you know. Dexterity and all that."

Draco nodded. 

"Rose brought it. She thinks Muggle mermaids are prettier than magical ones." Harry chuckled.

"Sounds like you had a pleasant afternoon."

"Look, it's not what you think. I wasn't just wasting your time. I had to see my Healer today. My arm, it's..." Harry stopped and looked down. What did it matter if he explained things? Draco would see and hear what he wanted to, probably think him a weak man for needing a Healer to handle his pain. "I just forgot to send an owl. The procedure takes a while when I've pushed--"

Draco raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Under his scrutiny, Harry felt self-conscious and didn't like it. He'd always been confident, in his job, in finding lovers, and in his dealings with Draco that didn't involve the wand, until this moment. Carefully, so he didn't disturb his eye patch, Harry ran his hand through the left side of his hair and felt nothing. The strap that usually held his eye patch in place wasn't there. Nothing was. Heat suffused Harry's face and his throat went dry. He looked round wide-eyed at Draco. "Excuse me." Then stood and ran to his bedroom. The last thing he wanted was Draco to see his face. It was too late, though. So far they'd avoided reverting to their old ways of judging each other, but this was different. This was a weakness, one Harry didn't want everyone to see. A disfigured Harry Potter would be a face of pity, not the face of a man who'd been a damn' good Auror. Any respect he'd got since then would disappear as quickly as a Patronus without a happy memory.

Every time Harry looked in the mirror, he saw that mistake, wore it on his skin. He didn't need reminding, not of that or the things he'd lost. He knew what he'd lost. Shitty circumstances might have stolen his magic, but Harry wasn't ready to give up. He wanted to keep trying and moving on. The rest would come together if he kept fighting; he knew that. 

Desire, though, made it even harder to know that Draco had seen what Harry needed to hide. Desire for normality, more than sex, more than being the Boy Who Lived to Be Disabled. 

Harry didn't stop until he reached his bedroom and saw both eye patches sitting like well-behaved children on his bedside table.

A gaping hole opened in his chest. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." He crossed and snatched up the magical eye patch. This shouldn't be happening. He was always careful. Only Susan and his friends knew about his face. It should've stayed that way, as far as he was concerned. Fuck -- Harry didn't want pity, or open judgement. Not from Draco or anyone. 

Exhaling harshly, Harry slid the magical patch into place. It scraped his face, his skin twinging uncomfortably. Embarrassment wasn't an excuse for bad manners, when Draco hadn't done anything. 

Harry didn't linger.

 

#

 

When Harry returned, Draco was looking around in the drawing room, his hands behind his back. He appeared unruffled by Harry's departure, but Harry also knew Draco had earned a reputation for his calm. Some said it was responsible for his brilliance in duelling. It also said more than Harry cared to think about regarding what Draco's life had been like after the war. For someone who'd been as bad about keeping his mouth shut at Hogwarts, Draco barely said a word now.

"Sorry about that." Harry sounded ridiculous to his own ears.

"Not a problem, Potter." Draco returned to his chair.

They sat in comfortable silence, even though Harry's thoughts felt like a storm. What Draco had seen was private. It was Harry's choice to share that piece of himself. Being careless, he'd done it unintentionally. It should've been different -- not like this. Not catching Harry in his sanctuary.

Draco sipped his tea, glancing at Harry occasionally. He cleared his throat. "Potter, would you like to stay for dinner on Tuesday?"

Brow furrowing, Harry looked up. "What?"

"Would you like to stay for dinner after training on Tuesday?"

"Er, alright."

Draco nodded. "I should go." He stood then left the drawing room. "Whatever happened to the girl? You know, the one you saved?" he asked on his way out.

Only one girl came to mind. "She died." Harry opened the front door.

Draco paused before stepping outside. "I realise that what happened to you was traumatic, but being ashamed of it isn't going to help your training. I stand by my belief that you're holding yourself back. I want to help you, but I can't if you won't meet me halfway. Do you understand, Potter? Good night." 

Before Harry could answer, Draco turned toward Grimmauld Place and Disapparated.

 

# # #

 

The mirror looked like it was covered with frost. Harry reached up and wiped away the condensation. Swipe by swipe, he saw the truth. There wasn't a spell that could change it. He sighed.

Failure, not heroism, stared back at him.

Harry located his eye patch and put it on. Not yet, he wasn't ready to stop wearing it yet -- Draco had only seen him because of carelessness. Another time... when Harry didn't feel disgusted by his own mistakes.

He left the bathroom, finished dressing, and Flooed to Draco's.

 

# # #

 

The gallery looked the same as always, but felt different, like the room had been stuffed with cotton. Or maybe it was just Harry. A week hadn't been long enough to provide perspective, but he couldn't leave. Giving up now meant never moving forward. At least he had dinner to look forward to later.

"No mirror today." Harry glanced away from his reflection. Knowing that he only wore the Muggle eye patch and seeing his face were different things. As long as he didn't have to watch himself, he could bear it. Or so he thought. But it was Draco's call. Harry's training might require him to stand on display, embarrassed by what he'd become; humiliated by a man he fancied. He knew it wasn't intentional. Draco'd said he wanted to help. 

"If you like," Draco said.

A spell later, only Harry and Draco remained.

"Today, you'll have opponents."

Harry froze. With opponents, he'd never be able to do anything.

"No, not live ones. It's just a drill, Potter," Draco said reassuringly.

"Oh... alright."

They began like the weeks before.

 

# # #

 

Gripping his wand, Harry eyed his opponents. They circled him, making creaking noises. Laughs and jeers came, but still he couldn't combat them. Over and over again he failed, had been failing continually.

Draco's encouragement was beginning to fall flat, and Harry's patience had been siphoned away to nothing. It wasn't Draco's fault. He was a competent teacher, even if they hit the learning curve at high speed and barely skated round the corner. Where Draco had discipline, Harry had determination, but that wasn't enough to get Harry through. Not any more.

"Potter, you're not concentrating."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologise to me; you're only letting yourself down."

Harry glared. "I'm not letting myself down."

"Then concentrate, or you will be. You've been doing well up until now."

"I'm trying."

"Of course you are. I just think you can do better." Draco approached and stood behind Harry. "May I?"

Harry blinked and looked over his shoulder. "What're you--?"

"Same thing as before, Potter. Just relax." Draco's voice was fingertips down Harry's spine. "You need to trust someone. You're not wearing any patch today... I think you trust me. You can." Words got tangled in Harry's throat and made it impossible to reply. "Trust me, Harry. I have no plans to humiliate you. I quite like you. You're as determined as a Crup to do this; that takes a lot of effort. Just let go."

It was easier said than done, but Harry wanted to try. He closed his eyes, feeling calm spread throughout his body. Nothing had felt this good since the accident. It wasn't magic, not like what Harry was trying to touch again. For months they'd been at this, working toward a goal that still felt out of reach. His fear of being rejected slipped away -- Draco's hands on Harry's arm and his hip didn't feel like that of a man who wanted nothing to do with Harry because he was crippled. 

"You're still a wizard, Harry."

Regardless whether he felt like it, Harry knew he was.

"You're... attractive, even with your injuries. I shouldn't say that because I'm your teacher, but I'm not going to mince words. You're still hiding. If you can't accept who you are, how are you ever going to move on?"

It was true; Harry knew that. But deciding that those setbacks hadn't irrevocably damaged his life wasn't easy; Draco had to know that. There were indelible events in both of their lives, some for the better, some for the worse. This, though, was one that Harry honestly appreciated. Draco was looking at him as more than a disfigured man, and it felt damn good.

A deep, hollow laugh sounded, stealing Harry's attention. He balled his fingers and glared at the mechanical-looking opponents before him. Their taunts didn't need a voice. Harry's thoughts made them as real as Draco's touch and his desire for it.

"Harry." 

Draco stepped around Harry, maintaining contact. He moved like water, flowing over Harry and across him so easily Harry got lost in watching Draco. So confident and assured, Harry envied how Draco stole his attention. He couldn't look anywhere but at Draco, wanting the slow deliberate touch like a deep breath. If he could have Draco spread through him with a touch, Harry'd soak it up for as long as it lasted and left its mark. 

Draco reached up, caressed Harry's face. His fingertips skated across the ridges on Harry's face. The pair of them must be a sight, Harry with his ragged and ripped cheek and forehead, Draco with his chiselled cheeks, chipped by a bevel into perfect edges of protection and weapon. So sharp. Approaching him would be mad, but Harry wanted it. Draco could rip him apart, but he didn't -- hadn't. His reason not to didn't matter. Who he was or who he had been wasn't important, either. Who he was now did.

The touch felt good. It hurt down to his toes, but the cage around him opened up. Harry shivered.

Then Draco inched forward too fast for Harry's mind to catch up before their lips were against each other's with Draco's hand on the back of Harry's head. He dragged Harry closer, though there was no space left between them. His mouth moved like a demand, cornering Harry with an impetus that couldn't be ignored.

Draco's fingers dug into Harry's scalp. Everywhere he touched tingled, leaving behind heat; then his hand moved and Harry wanted to feel the same rush again. 

Draco licked Harry's tongue over and over, pressing and teasing him with the kiss. If Harry could switch his cock to his mouth, he thought he'd be filling Draco's throat; instead, he settled for searching for the sensations every brush of their lips and bodies gave.

Harry moaned and held Draco tightly against him. He'd been starving for too long. This first taste of another person who'd seen him and felt him was perfect and frightening. Not long ago he'd rather have had anything but someone's hand against that part of his face, or knowing what he'd become. Now, he wanted Draco's lips and face against him. He wanted to rub every inch that had been concealed for months against Draco's cock, Draco's face, Draco's fingers. Anything to feel his own heart stop and all of his blood rush between his legs. Anything to feel someone touching him fully and without hiding.

...Draco touching him.

Harry couldn't breathe.

And he didn't want to. He reached out and took hold of Draco's hip and robe, bunching fabric in his fists and digging his fingers into whatever he could get hold of with his wand still clutched tightly in his left hand.

Then Draco pulled away, flushed and bloody gorgeous, and Harry wanted him back. But Draco stepped away. Harry's hands fell, the butt of his wand jabbing him in the thigh.

They looked at each other for a long moment.

Harry's heart began to pound a warning deep into his bones. Danger. But he didn't move. Protect yourself. 

Draco's hand shot into his robe and he pulled his wand, staring at Harry. 

 

\--trees, calm, water--

 

"Petrificus--"

"--Protego!--" 

"--Totalus!"

Harry's heart stopped.

Something rippled in the air, then it shattered like glass as though Draco had thrown a rock; Harry's heart punched his chest, over and over, stealing his breath. Nothing and everything mattered: the angle of Harry's hand with his wand in it, up and fending off an attack; his quick, shallow breaths; Draco's unreadable expression; the tension that held Harry like a prisoner.

Then everything fitted back into place and what had felt out of place clicked together.

Harry looked around, disbelief shooting through him. The shield was his; he'd protected himself against Draco's attack. What Draco had done felt cold and solid in the middle of his body. He couldn't swallow or blink, the betrayal felt so real, like he could reach out and touch it. Underneath his inability to move, Harry hoped the cold block in his belly was brittle. He wanted to believe in Draco. But attacking, when Draco knew Harry couldn't fight back, was cruel.

"Harry, you cast a Shield Charm."

Draco sounded like he had a mouth full of rocks and water. If he'd slow down or stop coming at Harry, Harry might have been able to understand him. 

"What?" Harry heard himself ask.

"Do it again."

Do what?

"Do it again." Draco raised his wand.

"Expelliarmus!" 

Draco's wand flew out of his hand and clattered at his feet. Too loudly. "That's it!" Draco picked up his wand. "Again."

Harry didn't know what he'd done, what Draco wanted him to do or how to do it. When Draco stepped back and took a fighting stance, Harry dropped into his own without thought, and when Draco's spell came, cast Protego.

Again Harry's shield shattered, but he saw it, plain as black against white. It was real and he was doing magic.

The decoy opponents Draco used appeared and queued up with their spindly wands raised and creaking legs bent. Now that Harry looked at them, he thought he saw the obscure faces of Draco's personal demons. They were all familiar, stirring different responses in Harry. Some he wanted to protect, like Ginny and Hermione, others he wanted to crush with a Reducto, like Draco's father. Perhaps Draco was testing him; Harry didn't see any reason to question him. Then again their appearance could've been just for Harry's benefit.

Slowly Draco retraced his path around Harry. He placed his hands on Harry's hips and pushed.

Harry took a step.

"Don't stop now. You're only just getting started."

In more than one way. 

Another step -- Harry shivered, then finally stopped at the starting marker across the floor, with Draco still holding on.

"Now, change the colour--" Draco's hand left Harry's waist for a moment and he flicked his wrist, "--of his robe." A cloud of fabric descended and enveloped the figure waiting, with its squeaking knees and poised, well-oiled elbows. Its shimmering face resembled a Weasley -- vaguely Bill. Harry leaned forward, thinking it odd. Draco had always hated the Weasleys... Now, squinting and pushing his chin forward, Harry even saw the faint scars across the constantly shifting face.

"You can do it."

Thoughts effectively derailed, Harry rolled his shoulders. He knew exactly what Draco was asking for; he steadied his arm and focussed. The words ran through his head every night before he fell asleep so often that speaking them felt like part of him. At first, only ink-stain splotches appeared; then they bled into one another until the whole became uniform blue.

For a moment, Harry thought that Draco was responsible for the change of colour. But he'd seen his own magic when he'd been eleven, weak and attempting to take its first steps. They all started the same, struggling to control magic for the first time. Nothing ever compared.

Every time Harry sent a spell -- changing a robe colour, Transfiguring a thread into a needle -- at the queue, he felt Mrs Weasley's smile, the warmth and nervous tension of a first kiss that felt right... If Harry didn't know any better, magic was love. However stupid the notion, all he knew was its perfection. And what made it perfect was every flaw and that it wasn't the answer, but the means by which to find one. Magic gave and it took, required thought about the intention.

As Harry felt the gentle surges of his perfection coming back with each incantation and flex of his wrist, calm like he'd forgotten took hold.

 

#

 

A house-elf appeared with a tray and set out three vials and two cups of tea on the table. Harry recognised two of them immediately, but not the third. The rich swirl of blue and mint liquid occupying two of the containers was potent, fast-acting and turned a man's hair an off-putting shade of puce if any diseases the potion couldn't fight infected the drinker. An offer for sex clearly sat on the table in the form of liquid herbs -- a choice when he needed it most. And Harry wondered when they'd gone from just being teacher and student to something he couldn't define. 

For whatever reason Draco seemed to want him and was giving Harry the choice to accept or decline. And as disconnected as Harry had felt since he lost his magic, he needed the invitation it implied. Pick up the bottle, drink it down and watch Draco do the same, then make a move -- it was easy. He reached for one of the vials and uncorked it, then drank it without taking his eyes from Draco's. It tasted foul, but its efficacy more than made up for the brief inconvenience.

Draco looked pleased. "The other's for your arm."

This surprised Harry. Still, he drank it happily and watched Draco empty his own swirling blue and mint-coloured liquid: self-preservation that fit into the palm.

Pleasant warmth slowly filled Harry as the magic worked. He didn't know if it was all the potion or just that Draco had given it to him, but he liked it. Pain and tension melted away, and even if it didn't last long, the respite was appreciated. 

Long seconds ticked by, in which Harry debated. Actions were stronger and more meaningful than words, so he stood and eyed Draco. His legs felt like they'd deserted him when Draco didn't follow immediately. But then Draco stood and crossed to Harry and kept going. Nearly at the end of the gallery, Draco glanced over his shoulder, an eyebrow arched and the corner of his lips quirked.

With his heart tripping in his chest, Harry followed. Every step he took was deliberate, a way to remain calm and not talk himself out of it. Already arousal slid through his veins, spreading out and making him want to be touched.

They stopped, and Draco opened a door, which led to another room. They went through four more of them before reaching another that Draco opened, waiting. Inside, Harry could see a large bathtub, a shower cubicle... sinks... 

Needing a moment to compose himself, Harry said, "I'll just be a moment."

"Alright." 

Then Draco stepped into what could've been another world and closed the door. After a few moments, the shower came alive. Harry imagined Draco stripping, his body glistening and-- If he just went in, he'd find out.

Smelling Draco sweaty after their duel would've been brilliant, but if Draco wanted to be clean, that was alright, too. They could just get dirty again.

Inside the bathroom, faint sounds stirred and trapped Harry's attention. First a soft moan, then a deeper, more penetrating expression of gratification rose up and fondled Harry. He licked his lips and listened, wondering how long Draco would carry on; whether he'd come or wait for Harry.

Harry listened long enough for his cock to go hard and his nerves to die. He opened the door and entered.

 

#

 

Rushing water covered most of the sound in the bathroom, but the tiles collected the throaty vibrations rising up and presented them to Harry from all sides. Another moan that felt like knowledgeable fingers trekked his body. It started at his ears and worked its way down, stopping in his stomach, then spread. Harry became aware of his heart attempting to flee his chest, the tingle in the head of his cock, and the way it felt like every hair on his body had been replaced by stiff threads, all at once.

He took a step, then another. There wasn't much distance between him and the cubicle Draco occupied -- enough that his fingers never seemed to reach the handle to the door. He stopped and watched the glass become like a pearl as steam rose up. Through it, Draco's outline called for Harry's hands, Harry's mouth, Harry's tongue and lips, his cock. Any part of him, as long as he got to touch Draco.

"I'd have come if you'd taken any longer to make up your mind." There was amusement in Draco's tone, something more than his usual reserve. It was sexy that Draco could make eager sound no more difficult than taking a step or inhaling.

"Good thing I didn't, then."

"Indeed. Now get in here."

Draco modulated his speech the same way he did everything else. He gave enough to make Harry want more and masked his demand inside an invitation that Harry wouldn't refuse. Not when it was exactly what he'd been wanting, needing, for months. Possibly longer, if he thought about it. Time warped perception; all Harry knew was that he'd ached for something always just out of reach. With Draco, he thought he may have found it, however briefly it might last. He didn't need permanence or the promise of more, but he hoped there would be. Draco waiting and wanking, in welcome, despite Harry's flaws, felt like a grope to his bollocks and cock. Just enough to tease blood into the right places and make him want to rub himself shamelessly through his robe as he watched Draco continue where he was headed. 

Ethics be damned. "By the way: you're fired."

Draco chuckled in a way that brought to mind dirt and sweat. Harry wanted to swallow the sound, imagined it would sit warm and refreshing in his belly. "Good."

That one word could've been Imperius the way Harry's mind went blank and he needed to be inside the cubicle with Draco. Warmth spread through his belly and loins like good Firewhisky. His cock pulsed and seemed to steal basic comprehension. Though Harry knew how to unfasten them, he fumbled with his clasps. Need controlled him now like his mind and body were disconnected. Then, taking a breath, Harry found focus again. He glanced up, watching Draco's back and arse.

Slowly, he undressed, taking care not to overwork his arm. Whatever he and Draco got up to would put enough strain on it. That was fine, though; brilliant, even. They'd been watching each other long enough. The only logical step was to stop using their eyes to do what other body parts could do better. If Draco still facing away from Harry was any indication, Harry's tongue would be giving his first demonstration before long, and that was only the beginning. Not that Harry minded. The taste and feel of a man's arse was one of the most mouth-watering temptations Harry knew. Now that he was closer, he could see Draco's shoulders flexing under the spray. Taking so long to undress kept him from following the rivulets that disappeared between Draco's cheeks. Harry was jealous of the water then. It was reaching places he wanted to taste and stealing the flavour of Draco's skin. That should be Harry's. He didn't fancy sharing -- not after months of unfulfilled desire.

Will and self-control couldn't stop Harry's fingers from trembling. But he tried to steady his hands, only anticipation was like any good orgasm: building until there was nothing left but the need to let go. 

Opposing drives to be patient and hurry the fuck up guided his fingers to the last hook. He jerked the fabric from his arms, but it held on. "Bugger." Harry stopped pulling and took a moment to calm down. Then, when he felt like all of his blood had gathered between his legs, he tried again with success. Harry dropped the robe and toed off his trainers, one at a time. Dully they hit the floor; then he bent over to pull off his socks. From there he had a perfect view of Draco's thighs, buttocks, and just the hint of his balls. Fuck, Harry wanted them in his mouth, too, everything. He didn't have enough mouths to do it all at once. Not to eat Draco's arse, suck his cock and kiss him. Damn! He had to prioritise. Maybe Draco would let him try one of the others later.

Whatever Draco wanted he was fine with.

"Take the patch off." Draco's voice interrupted Harry's thoughts.

Harry froze. Maybe not that. It was one thing not to wear it during training. What Draco was asking for... Harry wasn't sure he could give. That was too intimate for someone Harry barely knew -- he thought. From the outset, though, Draco had been different. He'd never shrunk or pulled away -- never flinched or seemed disgusted. That had been Harry, afraid of his own shortcomings. 

"I want to see you, not who you think I want to see."

No argument came to Harry's mind, just the insecure notion that complying would make shagging into a pity fuck. It was unreasonable. Pity hadn't entered their interactions yet. Still Harry hesitated. Taking his patch off meant opening himself in a way he wasn't sure he was comfortable with. But running away never solved anything; he knew that.

At length, Harry pulled off the patch and let it slip from his hand. Along with it went his thoughts.

He stripped his pants and finally took hold of the shower door. Inside, Draco braced himself against the wall and spread his well-toned legs. Muscles rippled and flexed beautifully from shoulder to calf. No one had ever presented themselves like this for Harry. Christ, it was part surrender and all invitation. 

But Harry didn't want to rush. Being given something so alluring shouldn't be taken for granted. Draco Malfoy wet and -- oh, fuck -- spreading his arse without shame was a thing to be cherished, even if for this one time.

One step and he dropped, feeling water splash against his back. Warm, slick tiles met his knees, though Harry lost his balance and tipped forward. He gripped Draco's thigh, digging into firm sinew. No comment or argument came, so Harry carried on. He straightened and repositioned himself for comfort. Draco had himself spread so widely that Harry could see every twitch of the muscle clearly in his flesh.

Exhaling brief praise for Draco's body, Harry shifted forward further. He eyed the obscenely displayed whirl of pink and licked his lips, then buried his face between Draco's cheeks.

Draco hissed, moaned -- Harry couldn't tell which; then he extended his tongue and flicked it over Draco's hole urgently to see if he could make Draco make that sound again. All Harry got, though, was a quiver that wasn't enough. Slowing down, he traced the taut, wrinkled rim. The water hadn't stolen Draco's flavour after all. Rich, clean -- the taste sat on Harry's tongue, made him swallow, and want more. Harry ran his nose along the tender centre, tickled by fine hairs. Unable to resist, he kissed Draco's hole, then again, and opened his mouth to caress the little pucker. He dragged the sensitive underside of his bottom lip across it, delighted by the sensation from the texture. Draco seemed to like it, too.

Again he made a sound, this one of definite approval. It shot through Harry. His cock throbbed, but he didn't touch himself, not yet. He'd get his relief when he was balls-deep in Draco's now-flexing arse.

Harry pushed his tongue into Draco repeatedly. He tried to lick every ridge of the rim, get every part of Draco wet that hadn't already been touched by water. Inside was his.

Draco shoved back, panting and muttering. The repetition became hypnotic and addictive, like Draco's as he reacted.

Harry slurped messily at the tensing and relaxing ring. Soon he'd have his cock in there. Then Draco really would have a reason for the noise he was making; Harry planned to give him one.

Draco wasn't desperate for a man; no, he wanted pleasure, pure and simple. This was new. Harry's partners were usually predictable and participated like they were following a set of instructions. Not Draco. Draco knew what he wanted and expected Harry to deliver it, whether by mouth, cock, or fingers. He ground into Harry's mouth still, moaning softly when Harry slowed down and caressed Draco's pulsing anus. 

It felt good to be wanted, without barriers or hiding. Harry realised he'd been doing just that for so long he'd stopped enjoying the raw sensation that came from giving and receiving pleasure. What Draco was giving was more than pleasure, though. It was acceptance and acknowledgement that even with Harry's limitations, he was desirable.

And right now Harry felt it with every withdrawal of his tongue and the resistance he met pushing back in. Delicious. Clamping, expanding and slick with saliva. Harry loved it. He moaned into it, sliding his left hand up. A lovely swell of flesh and muscle flexed; Harry continued, further, until he brushed Draco's fingers, all contorted and strained, holding his arse open.

Harry shifted, running his lips and tongue over the curve of buttock and dips where Draco dug into his own body to present himself, where he surrendered. It wasn't the same as submitting to a master or becoming a plaything. Harry knew the difference like tasting water instead of wine, and needed it, needed this.

A moan shook Harry. He was getting to the point where he couldn't wait any more. Fortunately for him, Draco wasn't begging with his voice, just his body and the way he pressed closer, as though Harry might leave. Bloody ridiculous notion, but Harry felt the same way. The urge to fuck now and take his time remained at war. Sometimes Harry wanted to be selfish. Of course he wanted to savour the taste of Draco on his tongue and remember the way his arse clenched as he moved closer to orgasm. Draco's reactions made plain that he wanted everything Harry was doing.

Harry bit Draco's arse and sucked, rubbing the bunched skin with his tongue to leave his own mark. When he felt satisfied he had, Harry released his hold and eyed the purpling splotch. Yes, Draco would remember later -- just like Harry. Now all he wanted was to have his cock in Draco, and Draco's perfect face pressed against the tiles, with steam rising up round him and water hitting his back. 

Harry pinched Draco's arse. "Don't let go."

Draco's fingers flexed and repositioned at Harry's request; he spread himself properly again. 

For a man of such power, magically and physically -- of mind -- Harry wondered what Draco wanted with him. Harry knew what he wanted from Draco; it was under his hands, warm and pink from arousal and the water. 

Now, Harry wanted to be the one Draco gave himself to completely. After so many months of attempting to rediscover magic, this moment meant everything. The rest didn't matter -- it was history; and Harry had learnt from it. Draco, arching and twisting to look over his shoulder, was everything. And what he was giving to Harry meant more than Harry could define.

Draco stood, knees trembling and kept his fingers digging into his smooth and round arse cheeks. Where the muscles called attention to the effort of control, two dips rested below his hips. Further down, Draco's slender, toned thighs parted further. Every tendon down his legs moved and created a hollow behind Draco's knees that Harry wanted to lick as much as he had Draco's arse, and follow it down along the tight curve of Draco's calves, then finally end at the edge between ankle and heel. 

The sight stole Harry's breath.

He inhaled deeply and pressed his face back into Draco's crack. 

Draco's skin was hot against Harry's cheeks. Nestled there, Harry swiped a long line from bottom, brushing Draco's hole, to the top, just across the depression where Draco's skin separated, and parted his lips, just to close them around the twitching wrinkle under his mouth. Draco let out an undignified moan that shot into Harry's prick and made it hard not to release Draco and wank himself. Liking Draco's response, Harry did it again and again, lapping at the slackening and tightening muscle.

"Harry."

A sloppy mess of saliva and water rested between Draco's cheeks. Harry shifted and pushed his tongue back into Draco's hole. It clenched as Draco moaned again. His fingertips and nails jabbed Harry's face, but Harry barely noticed. Wider, yes, that was where Harry wanted Draco to be. Back and forth, Harry thrust his tongue as deeply as he could manage. So deeply that his nose was smashed into the groove of Draco's arse and he couldn't breathe unless he backed away. He didn't want to back away. 

His jaw was wide and straining, teeth pressing into Draco when his lips pulled back too far. The constant motion -- in and out -- made Harry's neck ache. He couldn't get enough of Draco's flavour or the way he ground down, the sounds of pleasure that followed. Every lick and slurp gave him the promise gratification -- Draco. Still he went deeper, until he had to stop, then back out again to wet an already slick rim. All traces of sweat were gone. To him, Draco had stolen pleasure by washing or using magic before Harry had finally gone inside the bathroom. Jealousy rushed up Harry's spine.

For payback, Harry withdrew his tongue, ignoring the deep sound of disappointment Draco let out. He flicked the quivering ring up and down, from side to side, with his tongue. He could feel Draco's strain, his attempts at self-control.

Every gasp and pant spurred him on, but Harry slowly began cracking under the building pressure in his bollocks and cock. Somehow he'd get another chance to do this, have Draco's legs wide and in the air where he could lick and suck Draco's perineum, balls and cock as long as it took to make Draco come. 

Fuck self-control. 

Slowly Harry stood, sliding his hands up Draco's body. The potion Draco had given him calmed the tension in his arm, and in that moment, Harry loved him for his foresight. Then the implication hit him like a brick to the chest: Draco wanted him and had long enough that he procured a potion to soothe the pain in Harry's arm. Harry hesitated, confused and a little afraid of what it meant.

Or didn't mean.

They seemed to want the same thing. 

Going by Draco's reactions, he wanted it as much as, if not more than Harry. Though Harry doubted it. Draco was fit and could have any bloke he wanted, and not on his looks. He had enough notoriety and celebrity that his bed never had to be empty. But he wasn't with someone else. His simplicity of appearance, that he didn't look like he belonged on the cover of Witch Weekly was what Harry found so appealing. There was no tan or careful cosmetic edge to his body -- it was raw and natural. He had earned every lean, muscular part of his body through sweat and constant work. The bow of the gallery floor, the spattering of scars -- all evidence of his efforts, yet he seemed to be just as alone as Harry.

Did he hide, too, Harry wondered.

He wasn't hiding now and that was all that mattered. Harry wasn't, either, and it felt brilliant. He pressed against Draco, their bodies fitting together seamlessly.

"Sensitive?" Little hairs tickled Harry's lips as he asked.

"Pleasantly so." 

Bloody hell, he even talked like sex and pleasure, that or Harry had spent so much time on his knees that he'd lost all sense of hearing. He slipped his left hand to Draco's arse and caressed slick skin, delighting in the answering shiver rippling beneath his fingers. He stroked a few times, then moved to penetrate Draco's hole smoothly.

"You can let go now," Harry said, in case there was any doubt.

A wet slap rang against the wall and slowly Draco's body relaxed. Harry liked the way Draco's skin folded around him. Tension and acceptance came in equal measure, his head lolling back and voice reaching out but never quite connecting. The plea was on his lips, in his throat, the way his body sank onto Harry's fingers and throbbed with each thrust. Slowly, feeling the expansion and tightening, Harry tested Draco's comfort. 

Heat and the stretchy walls of Draco's arse surrounded Harry's fingers, accepted them. Draco braced himself against the tiles.

"Good?"

It felt like it, but he wanted to know for certain. 

"Very." Draco rocked back and settled any doubts. "I'd really like you to fuck me now."

"Mm. I am." Harry withdrew his fingers; a mixture of spit and Draco coated them. Satisfaction fed Harry's arousal. He rubbed his fingertips together, thinking he might make it part of him. Smell the musk and remember it like a good wet dream. Then he pressed against Draco and buried his face in the dripping strands of hair at the base of Draco's skull. The scent of him was fresh and salty, like he'd only rinsed off before wanking.

Harry reached between them to take hold of his own cock with his left hand. He rubbed it along Draco's heated cleft, his nerves igniting pleasurably. Those first tingles sang through him, were demands and promises at once. He felt so tight he might break at any moment. He didn't stop, though. Breaking here, like this, would be brilliant. 

Positioning, Harry followed the curve of Draco's spine, down to where his cock sat between Draco's arse cheeks. Rivulets of water chased each other down Draco's back, his hip, his thighs. But fucking hell Draco had a fantastic body. Harry grazed Draco's hole and felt a flexion of welcome. To steady himself, he wrapped his right arm around Draco's chest and pulled. Draco collided with him.

Even wanton, on offer, Draco's strength and power came through. His body was relaxed and ready for Harry, self-control like he'd never seen before. Harry's heart was trying to break out of his chest. It drummed without relenting, and his arms and legs felt wobbly. It was brilliant and could only get better. 

Finally, Harry guided his cock into Draco. There was only brief resistance. Harry groaned deeply, satisfaction and pleasure shooting from the tips of his toes and to his cock.

Without warning, Draco drove his weight down, the greedy--

Draco moaned. Harry's cock felt like it was cradled inside a warm palm. Draco's barely-slick walls gave as Harry moved further in. He was a mess of white noise and feeling. Nothing else mattered now, with Draco's body swallowing him. Harry slipped his hand from between them and settled, his pelvis pressed tightly against Draco's arse. Already pleasure bubbled up; the pressure in his balls heavy and ready to go. If Harry wasn't careful, he wouldn't last long. He shifted, slid his left hand down Draco's flank, each of his ribs and tense muscles obvious under Harry's hand.

Maybe he didn't need to last long. Harry felt first the tension, then saw Draco's arm moving. Appreciation and envy sprang out like unruly hair after a combing. Getting Draco off, either way, was the goal, so Harry rolled his hips and dug his fingers into Draco's skin. First a slow withdrawal, then easing back in just to make sure Draco was alright. No complaint came, to Harry's delight. He thrust again harder, loving the suction and uneven drive forward, up. Next time he'd wank Draco, or suck him off.

A sibilant "yes" slithered into Harry's veins and moved through him like a drug. For those first few moments, Harry ground his hips forward, pulling out and pushing forward again at a languid pace. Draco didn't seem to mind. He shifted his arm and leaned his head back, exposing his neck and the delicious curve of his earlobe and throat. Still, he moved with Harry, meeting his thrusts with equally slow, teasing ones, his arm moving up and down.

Pace and rhythm were off, but somehow it worked. There was always pushing and pulling, and plunging into Draco faster and faster as Harry's sense of reality warped and he felt like he was a glass of water being turned upside down. No matter how much he tried, he never managed to get himself even again. The spray slapping his back gathered at his feet and made it difficult to stay balanced. Draco let him hold on, and kept making sounds that Harry imaged tasting like come and Draco's arse, all pleasure and how it felt to give it and take it. And there, giving it, Harry felt in control and powerful. Like he was good enough to turn Draco Malfoy into a quivering mass of electrified, roaring nerves that made him come so hard he never forgot who'd been responsible.

And Draco was the doing the same to him. Finally -- finally -- they were equal.

Again, Harry shifted, this time to get at Draco's neck, where the skin twisted. Draco's mouth was open and his eyes closed, his temple resting against the wall. He looked perfect panting and licking water from his lips at random. Wanting his mouth, Harry reached up with his left hand and grabbed Draco's chin. He wrenched it back, fingers digging into Draco's jaw. Draco moaned -- no resistance. He let Harry rake his teeth across the column of his neck and bite. Then let Harry suck on it, still meeting every drive of Harry's hips. Pleasure, burning muscles from exertion, pain in his right arm, none of it stopped Harry from his continuous drive deeper, faster, and harder. He buried his forehead in the base of Draco's skull, panting with each thrust. 

Harry rutted shamelessly, thrilled with Draco's response to him, to them. Yes, he wanted to feel more, make Draco come, taste it and him again. Wanted to shoot into Draco. And before Harry could stop, he slammed into Draco, moaning. Thrust, withdraw, in and out, deeper and again repeatedly. Then Draco tightened around him, and the sounds of pleasure became louder. They took shape and shifted into pleas and Draco writhing against Harry, his arm still working as he jerked his cock. Not much longer; Harry could feel it. All movement in front of him became like a bee drunk on honey. Draco's shoulders tensed. He didn't make a sound for long moments, then his whole body trembled against Harry and he moaned like he was the only man alive, coming.

Harry felt robbed of tasting that first orgasm with Draco, but knowing there was a line of white oozing down the tiles was satisfying enough. He couldn't take it any more. His self-control unwound, fraying until Harry felt like he dangled freely, without control, without restraint. The first tremor of Harry's own orgasm ripped up his spine and tore through his bones. He jerked, two, three times. Pent-up tension spun away as he emptied into Draco with a guttural groan and rolled his hips, feeling his come ease the glide in and out. Harry moaned deeply, panting and still aching for release. Little jolts of pleasure prickled through him until he couldn't stand the sensation any more. He vibrated like the top of a drum being repeatedly struck. To keep from slipping, he tightened his hold on Draco and buried his face in Draco's spine. Completely spent, he withdrew and sagged against Draco. Much as Harry didn't want to, he had to let go; his right arm ached fiercely. But he couldn't. Even slumped against Draco, he could barely hold himself up. Everything about it wiped away the grime of the last year and made Harry feel new, clean.

Strength had deserted his legs. He felt Draco move in his arms, and hissed at the familiar sting of being touched when tapered fingers wrapped around his wrist and pulled. Somehow, Draco managed to turn himself round and supported Harry. Their sated cocks rubbed against one another and made both of them moan gently. More of that for later, Harry hoped. He looked at Draco.

Glassy eyes stared back at him from a serene face. For a long time, Draco didn't blink or glance away. Then, as the need to pull away rose up, Draco traced the bunched skin on the right side of Harry's face with his fingertips. It was like he was searching for something, the way he outlined every inch from forehead to cheek. Harry barely felt it, just knew vaguely that Draco's last stop was the lightning bolt. Then, slowly Draco leaned forward and kissed it.

Whatever Draco had been, he wasn't any more. He knew he was powerful and could have anything or anyone he wanted. Disarming the witch at the duel must have been his way of reminding anyone who doubted him. But here he was, choosing Harry, crippled arm ruined face and all, taking aches long-felt and soothed them. There were no more barriers; they were both open and vulnerable to the other, no regrets, promises or expectations. 

Harry felt another kiss.

"So... what'll you do now?"

That wasn't the sort of question Harry was used to after sex. It was absurd and felt more intimate than the fucking had. Harry laughed, shaking and leaning against Draco. Hundreds of ideas, that all felt right or within his ability, came to mind. For certain, he wanted get used to casting spells again.

Once Harry's amusement passed, he composed himself and smiled. He really had no idea what he was going to do.

But that didn't matter.

"First?" Harry kissed Draco's collarbone. "You, again. Then... everything."

 

# the end #

 

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